


≈delicacy≈

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood Play, Boundary discussion, Communicating About Sex, Cutting, Discussion of Object Insertion and Double Penetration, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Exaggerated Sexual Knife Behaviors in Nightmare, Graphic Descriptions in Nightmare, Kinktober, Knife Play, M/M, Masturbation, Medical Kink, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Older Man/Younger Man, Whumptober, gaping, nonviolent gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26918146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Bright asks Gil to consider knife play. Thinking about it weighs on Gil's mind more heavily than some of their past discussions.NOTE:Please read tags - graphic depictions in nightmaresWhumptober: Run + Ritual Sacrifice + Blood Loss + Trail of Blood + Kinktober: Gaping + Knife Kink
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	≈delicacy≈

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober + Kinktober = this experiment. I have a handful of different Kinktober prompt lists and the Whumptober prompt list, so I'm going to cross them over as much as I can. These two days' came from [Kinktober](https://lustyargonianmaid.tumblr.com/post/627757371721220096/time-to-start-planning-kinktober-fandom-works), [Kinktober](https://jbbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/post/627189398153363456/kinktober-2020) and [Whumptober](https://whumptober2020.tumblr.com/post/628055505485561856/whumptober-2020-updated).

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Gil admits, looking at his coffee mug on the counter. The request has him curling in on himself, protecting his heart as it pumps _this is a bad idea._ The kid does _not_ have a good relationship with knives — they could be walking into all sorts of triggers. But that's his immediate interpretation — his husband has put time and care into asking, demonstrating he may feel differently.

“Think about it?” Bright asks, resting his hand on Gil’s knee.

Gil nods. As always. They try to reserve immediate ‘nos’ for visceral ‘no way in hell’s.’ Everything else gets mulled over a few days. If Bright’s therapist thinks this will be beneficial… “How exactly did sex come up with your therapist? Again?” He sips his coffee, watching his husband’s reaction.

“Dreams. Nightmares? The usual.” Bright waves his hand, washing away his words. “It’s not important. Sometimes I need to talk about it.”

They fall into silence, both finishing their coffees. Gil squeezes Bright’s hand. “You coming with me or hanging back?”

“Coming with.”

“Train leaves in twenty.”

Bright hops off his stool and scurries toward the bedroom to get changed. Gil lingers in the kitchen, wondering what is in store for them at the precinct.

* * *

The long blade glints in the moonlight falling on the countertop. It’s expertly weighted, perfectly balanced between Gil’s thumb and forefinger. The tip of the chef’s knife skirts a choice delicacy laid across the surface, prime amongst all of the offerings. The one. The only.

Bright’s pecs flex as the metal grazes a nipple. “That’s my boy,” Gil says, the kid’s nipple perking before him. His voice sounds foreign, cloaked in the darkness he wields in his sure hand.

“More,” Bright issues a breathy demand.

The blade glides along Bright’s abs, curls into the space where leg meets torso, dances down to his knees and feet. His body rolls in shivers, from the knife’s chill or some other sensation, Gil isn’t sure.

“More. Too vanilla.”

Gil splits the length of his leg, blood running from the edges, spidering out to write _we’re the same_. Scraping the seams with the dull edge of the blade, he collects a puddle of blood as an offering. He cradles the knife as he hovers up Bright’s body. When he bares the precious fluid, Bright’s tongue laps, takes a taste.

“Needs more seasoning.”

Gil squeezes Bright’s ass, feels for the suppleness that may offer the best cut. The knife sinks in like butter, releases a gush that pools between his thighs.

“Tease me.”

Gil adds another line to the scar in Bright’s side. Peels through the skin, layer after layer, revealing the pink underneath. Inspects the lining in the pale light, discovering more red than Whitly. “That the right spot?”

“I can take the shaft.” Bright’s huge eyes look back.

“Hilt, my boy.”

“Tomato.”

Gil presses the end of the bloody handle to Bright’s hole. “That’s the butt.” Visions of penetrating him until his ass holds the shape of the knife long after flood his mind. Would his cock fit in beside it? Or maybe a paring knife?

“Fuck me with it.”

“Patience,” Gil orders. He grasps a foot and patterns several vertical slices into Bright’s toes. They splay open, a succulent garnish to the meal. He continues the carvings up his other leg, leaving behind a matching brush of crimson accentuating the path to his straining cock. Indulging in a lick, he detects a fine bouquet of copper and precome. “Pretty good recipe.”

“Needs more fucking.”

Gil rolls his eyes. There’s an entire countertop of ingredients they haven’t experimented with yet. Chuck, and rib, and shank, and _loin_ …

“ _Fuck me_ ,” the kid sits up and demands, patience an impenetrable concept.

Latissimus dorsi, and serratus, and soleus, and iliopsoas… Gil shakes his head as if that’ll jumble the letters into something that makes sense. “How would you like to be prepped?”

Bright smears his hand through the blood on his stomach and reaches like he’ll take care of the action himself.

“Chiffonade, julienne, allumette… dice if you’re lacking any imagination.” Gil moves the blade in the air, mimicking each of the knife skills. “Just need to wait on draping.”

Bright grabs his cock, fingerpainting a ghastly shade.

“Ten blade?”

“We’re the same.”

Gil jolts awake shouting into his pillow, blade clattering out of his fingers, disintegrating into the sobering early morning air. Sitting up on the edge of the bed, he runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to stop their shaking.

The Surgeon’s words came out of _his_ mouth. He had tried to eviscerate Bright, turn him into a feast of human anatomy while Bright got off on it. His stomach clenches, and he rushes to the attached bathroom to be sick in the sink. Bloody fingers look back at him as he washes his face.

He turns to head back to bed and jumps at Bright’s presence in the doorway. “Holy shit.” His hand rests over his chest, lungs panting underneath.

“Sorry. You okay?”

Gil bear hugs Bright, squeezing out the stress of his nightmare. “I can’t do it. I can’t,” he pleads into his husband’s hair.

“What?”

“Knife play. _No._ ” Only one day’s worth of consideration, but there’s no way it’s happening.

“Okay, Gil. That’s fine.” Bright rubs his back.

Gil can’t get his arms to stop shaking, his head to stop replaying _we’re the same_ , _we’re the same_ as he becomes some warped version of The Surgeon.

“What’s wrong? What can I do?” Bright asks into his chest. “Hold you, or make tea, or — “

“Fuck no.” Gil tightens his hold.

“Breathing — “

Mortified, Gil lets go and retreats to the bedroom. His eyes pass over the bed as a place to sit, but there isn’t any other furniture in the room. He leaves, unsure of where he’s going, what he’s doing — he is in no way fucking _the same_ as Martin Whitly…

“Gil?”

Bright’s hand is on his arm, and they’re in the kitchen. Gil can’t be there, either.

“Gil, sit.”

They’re in the living room, Bright looking up at him from the corner of the couch with open arms.

“Sit.”

Gil lowers himself onto the leather, accepting Bright’s arms around him and allowing himself to be pulled back against his chest.

“You’re okay.” Bright massages his scalp. “You’re okay.”

He’s not, not really. His breaths come in gasps that don’t give him any oxygen, don’t support his body’s needs. The weight of The Surgeon’s vile presence rests on his lungs.

“You’re okay,” Bright repeats as if hearing it one more time would help Gil believe it.

In his nightmare, Gil carved up his husband like a _murderer_ when all Bright asked for was a few nicks. The tease of a cold blade against his skin. The chance to see a katana or pocketknife as something positive in place of haunting his nightmares. Instead, the nightmare has taken hold in his mind and replicated like the virus Martin Whitly is.

He’s gonna need a minute.

As much as he knows that his imagination ran wild and took his thoughts to places his husband never intended, it’s difficult to quench the fear. Reminding himself they would never take it to that extreme, they could practice knife play safely, does little for his panic. He’s filled with dread thinking that some infinitesimal part of him judged his husband’s request. It’s not what they do.

Bright holds him for what feels like hours as he struggles to breathe. Gil eventually finds himself counting, practicing the same techniques he’s used with his husband for years. As peace settles into his joints, he recognizes the fleece throw Bright pulled over the two of them, its soft fabric nestled between his cheek and his husband’s chest. “Sorry,” his scratchy voice offers.

“There is _nothing_ you need to apologize for.” Bright caresses his cheek.

“I can’t do knife play.”

“You told me already.” Bright kisses his forehead.

Gil runs his hand over his face in an attempt to assuage the tight frown. The guilt.

“No isn’t shaming, Gil.” Bright takes Gil’s palm and kisses it. “No is a fine answer.”

Gil knows that, but he might need the reminder a few more times until the last vestiges of the nightmare release. Usually the one providing comfort after such an event, he’s not accustomed to being this shaken, his thoughts so disjointed.

“What do you always say… if we both don’t want in, it’s just not for us?” Bright shrugs, and Gil’s head shifts. “Something like that. Can I get you anything?”

Gil shakes his head.

“There’s something I tell myself after, when the nightmares are really bad.” Bright pauses. “It’s not real.”

“I know that.”

“Good.”

It’s still terrifying, has Gil wrapped in an embrace he desperately doesn’t want to move from, has him questioning what part of their conversation even led his subconscious down that path.

There aren’t answers. He doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Want to stay in today?” Bright asks. “We could do movies or something else relaxing.”

They should be heading to the precinct, but Gil’s not moving. “Yeah.”

“You _might_ even be able to convince me to make you an omelette for breakfast. All the fixings.” Bright pokes his side.

“Later.”

Bright briefly hugs him a little tighter. Gil’s mind drifts in the shelter of his husband’s existence.

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> i've received significant support from so many people in this fandom that help make my writing possible. as this story is E, if you're 18+ and would like to chat prodigal son with wicked awesome people, come on by the [pson trash server](https://discord.gg/TVkmgxV).


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